Sick
by TheRedRogues
Summary: Post-Walk. Garraty's thoughts and troubles come barrelling down on him.


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He was sick of talking about it. Sick of sitting around and waiting. Sick to death of the droning and voices reminding him of what happened. He wished it would stop. But it didn't, and he was starting to fear that it never would. He was getting fucking sick of it.

He had won the Long Walk. Raymond Garraty. Number 47. He had outwalked ninety-nine other boys. Why couldn't he have been one of those ninety-nine boys?

His feet were bandaged in white wraps most of the time, and his mother demanded that he put ice on his feet every hour. He mostly sat in his bed all day. Pinpricks would stab up the nerves in his feet if he attempted to stand. His Mother fretted about him daily, 'Ray, do you need anything? Do you want to sit somewhere else? How're your feet?'

Most of the time though, he just wanted to visit _their_ graves. Ray's mother would often get worried at how much he asked to go to the cemetery, however, she always obliged to his requests.

Garraty had won the Long Walk, where one hundred boys had to walk until only one remained. If you slow down the pace you are required to walk, you get your ticket—the soldiers shoot you dead. Ray had out walked all of them, had to watch his friends die in front of him. Whether they sat down, got killed from fatigue, or ripped their own throat out, he felt as if he'd seen it all.

Stuck in his head, he hadn't noticed his mother's arrival until she cleared her throat. Ray's eyes moved towards her, and she smiled nervously. He waited for her to say something, his face a blank slate.

"Sweetie," Mother started, her eyes running over her son, "the Major's here." Garraty blinked at that before turning his head away from her, glancing out the window.

He replied, "Tell him to leave." His voice was plain, no emotion slipping out. His mother sighed tiredly, leaning against the doorway. The Major was the man who led the Long walk. The man who created it.

"Ray, please," his mother begged, "you haven't even stated what your prize is." Ray glanced back at Mrs. Garraty, eyes unsure. He didn't want to see that bastard.

"Fine," Ray gave up, staring angrily at his two feet that laid on top of his bed sheets.

A few moments later, the Major walked into his room, and Garraty greeted the man with a hard stare. The man sat down in a chair that had been placed next to his bed ever since he had returned.

The Major put out his hand for Garraty to shake, however, Garraty didn't return the gesture. Giving up on his outstretched hand, the man let his hand fall back down.

"Alright, Raymond Garraty," the Major ruefully started, "I'm only hear to discuss your prize." Ray nodded slightly, eyes finding the Major's tall, bulky figure.

"I want to give the money to Scramm's wife," Ray mentioned, the boys that he walked with all promised to give Scramm's pregnant wife a fair share of the money if they had won. "I also want all the other walkers to be remembered, and not just by their numbers." It was hard to say those things to the Major. He could feel a sob building deep in his chest, and it was difficult to keep his voice from cracking. But he wouldn't show weakness in front of this sick shit.

Garraty wanted the Major to leave. To leave his room, to leave this house, to leave the fucking face of the Earth like his dad did. The Major nodded, signalling that his request would be dealt with. Ray felt tears welling in his eyes, so he turned his head away, not wanting the man at the edge of his bed to see.

Major looked at Ray one last time before getting up, adjusted his sunglasses and walked out without saying good bye. Garraty was glad he didn't say any thing, or else he would've blown.

Sometimes, he would wake up in the middle of the night screaming one of their names. Sometimes he would scream McVries's name, sometimes Baker's, Olson's. He was haunted by their deaths. Other times he would wake up, sitting straight in bed and wonder how long he's been sitting and if he's gotten his third warning yet.

Garraty bit his bottom lip hard, clenching the sheets covering his legs. His mother came in again, eyebrows creased.

"Ray, honey, what did you ask for?" She asked, but added, "but you don't have to tell me if you don't want to." Garraty shook his head, but otherwise, remained mum. His mother sucked in her lips warily, eyes holding traces of worry.

"Alright, I'll call when dinner is ready," she stated, slowly backing away from the door frame until she disappeared. Ray considered committing suicide sometimes, but he always dismissed the idea.

Garraty suddenly slid on the side of the bed, going to get up. His mother had told him to call for her to help him when he wanted to walk, but right now, he needed to be alone, needed to feel the pain. Ray let his feet touch the wooden flooring, and he felt a shiver glide through his body. Then, he fully stood on his feet. Striking pain followed up the soles and balls of his feet, nearly causing his knees to buckle on him.

Ray gasped from the pain, grasping hold on his bed side table. A broken grin crossed his face, and he felt like chuckling. After all the horror, he had endured in the Long Walk, it felt pathetic for just standing to cause him pain.

He took few steps forward, holding his arms out awkwardly. Ray focused on picking 'em up and putting them down. He remembered Olson creating that phrase.

His feet longed to be resting again, but his eyes found the door to the bathroom. It wasn't that he had to take a piss, but he just simply wanted to see how he looked.

Garraty walked slowly towards the bathroom, each step hurt like hell, burning up the soles of his feet. But he enjoyed the pain, welcomed it. He wanted to feel what every walker had faced. Charley horse, blisters, fatigue… death. He wanted all their pain.

Ray took a few more steps to the door, his hand reaching out and grasping the doorknob. Steadying himself for a few seconds, he took in a deep breath, leaning his head on the door.

Ray built up enough courage to continue into the bathroom, and he pushed off the door. He stumbled into the room, hands grasping the edge of the sink. He looked up into the mirror, his eyes penetrating his own appearance.

His skin was a ghostly white, his eyes brooding and dark. On his cheek, a scar stood out like an exclamation point. His hair was blonde, and it hung messily around his head.

Then, he finally noticed, that it wasn't himself that he was looking at. It was all of them.


End file.
